


Out Of This World

by sweetindulgence (sweetdefault)



Series: Yautja Tales [1]
Category: Aliens vs Predators Series - Various Authors, Predator Original Series (1987-1990), Predators (2010)
Genre: F/M, In the meantime, maybe one day - Freeform, passive aggressive fucking, will the predator fandom ever get its own unique tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:01:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24378427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetdefault/pseuds/sweetindulgence
Summary: In the Cassowary System, Fiona works as a Bouncer for the infamous Chickpea Night Walk. It brings her into contact with an interesting fellow who isn't there for the dancers.
Relationships: Yautja (Predator)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Yautja Tales [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1773715
Comments: 15
Kudos: 85





	Out Of This World

**Author's Note:**

> trying to work on drosera and instead just. falling asleep. wrote something else. here it is. tried to edit. very sleepy. going to nap. 
> 
> TW this story involves sex work.

Unlike the other folks at the station—Fiona is there for one reason, and one reason only: to guard. She is a bouncer, top of her class and more than capable of knocking skulls or tearing a tentacle off. The folks who travel to the Cassowary System have the same intent in mind, but intent means _shit_ if they can’t behave. Fiona takes her job seriously; her ability to assess and scout out trouble is the reason the staff at the Chickpea Night Walk do what they do in _confidence._ She’ll always be there to step in and protect them, and she doesn’t even ask for a tip.

This night, she’s dealt with two annoying fuckers. One’s a Throex, buzzed off his mind and throwing lobster-like claws across the table where Xnnzk’x dances. Fiona doesn’t hesitate; she drags the protesting crustacean from the club to the docking bay, offering only a _humble_ smile while the Throex flips her off and gets back on his ship. The other pain-in-the-ass is a bitch she hasn’t seen around, a religiously tall giraffe-looking sort with nostrils dripping of mucus and eyes like a dragonfly. The woman claims she paid Hapfiwi, but Fiona knows better than to take someone at their word. Once good ol’ Hap proves the asshole didn’t pay up, she kicks the giraffe lady out.

“Iwannwi-ixw!” Hapfiwi calls as they tie their shrug back around their shoulders and scamper off to join the set of dancers on stage.

Fiona doesn’t remember what it means, but she mouths _you’re welcome_. Bouncing is a tough job, but she intends to protect the workers of the Night Walk at any cost. Safety isn’t found everywhere in intergalactic sex work, but if she can provide a semblance of some to the club’s staff—Then she’ll do it, anything. She doesn’t have to be but a plain average human to get shit done.

In her meanderings and patrol across Chickpea’s grounds, she nearly runs into a patron when the big oaf steps backward in her path. Fiona growls instinctively and clenches her teeth. She looks up at the seven-foot-shit meatbag and pauses at the sheen of reflective metal adorning the patron’s face. _Ah, fuck. One of these guys._

Yautja aren’t the worse patrons to stop by. In fact—Most of them are _respectful_ toward the ladies dancing. That’s the problem: the _women_ at the club get respect, and no one else gets shit. Fiona’s had more than one altercation where a Yautja hunter thought he could get away with groping one of the non-binary dancers or pass up tipping one of the guys. She doesn’t reserve her talents for the ladies; her job is to keep _all_ the dancers safe. Her fists tense as she stares up at meatbag fuckface.

“You’re not on stage.”

“No fucking shit.” She snaps at his mask’s translator. “I’m a bouncer, not a dancer—Go tip my pals up there or get lost.”

This Yautja isn’t wearing any noticeable clan attire. Fiona knows from experience each Yautja clan has different symbols and traditions. Often, a Yautja can be identified by the work of the clan’s armorer, or the symbol etched unto the helmet. Things as subtle as the curve of combistick’s blade give away the alien’s home clan. It doesn’t spell good news; Fiona squares up and puffs out her chest. She is _not_ taking shit from a Bad Blood today.

“Brave.” The Yautja intones into the mask. When he leans down, Fiona’s hand goes to the blaster strapped at her hip. She hears his chuckle. The tall hunter straightens upright. “Not here for trouble. Sharp-Knife.”

“Your name?” Fiona cocks an eyebrow. She doesn’t believe he’s there for a walk through the flowers. The only flower the Chickpea has is a ten-foot-tall carnivorous daisy named Pynn'f, and the dancer doesn’t let _anyone_ walk through her without paying a toll.

“Sharp-Knife.” The Yautja repeats. He cocks his head to one side, the dozens of _long_ brown dreadlocks falling at his side. Length means honor or shit in many clans, but she isn’t impressed.

“Fiona.” The bouncer huffs.

“…Fiona.” The mask says softly, as if whispered under breath. The tall asshole’s muscles _ripple_ when he shifts to cross his arms. She makes a point not to stare. “What is your price, Fiona?”

“Ha!” The bouncer’s first thought is to clutch her sides and _laugh._ “Oh, you think you can afford me? I’m not an easy buy, asshole. You don’t have the credits.”

“Try me.” The voice indicates interest. It gives Fiona a moment’s pause.

She pulls a small pad of paper from her pocket. It’s rudimentary, but she appreciates having something around to scribble on when the hours are slow. Fiona fetches a pen and writes out a _long_ number. She’s grinning wickedly when she slams the pad against his beefy, strong stomach. She can feel the muscles easily past the thin mesh matrix the Yautja dons. He takes the pad of paper, glances at it, and bursts out laughing. His mandibles chitter behind his mask; he jabs the pad of paper back at her then turns to the small square computer attached to a gauntlet on his left wrist.

She squints at him. “You’re fucking joking me, right? _Who_ comes to a strip club to fuck the bouncer?”

“Bouncer’s got a nice ass.” The helmet says it without any emotion, but it still makes heat jump inside her abdomen.

“I got work for another hour.” The woman snaps. “I ain’t walking out on my shift. These dancers are my friends—They need me, I need them, we all need each other for this club to stay running.”

“You can come to my ship when you are off. _If_ you want to.” The Yautja tenses and his muscles ripple again. This time, she stares at it a little longer than she should. A lump forms in the back of her throat; she feels heat flush her cheeks at the thought of just how big his muscles are underneath.

When the night is over and dancers are packing up to head home, Fiona finds herself at the door to the Chickpea Night Walk. She stops and stares across the docking bay, where dozens of personal spacecraft wait for their owners. Sure enough, at the very back, is the _distinct_ silhouette of a civilian-caste Yautja Spacecraft. It looks to be in good shape, and the offer of immense credits calls to her even in the building. She’s taken up offers before, though never for the same amount and never offered by a Yautja Bad Blood. It could be dangerous.

No, it is almost certainly dangerous. Her curiosity begins to egg at her. The danger is exciting; she feels terribly horny just thinking about the things the two could get up to. Fiona's mind makes itself up. She throws a jacket on and waves at Hapfiwi leaving before making rounds to ensure the building’s cleared out. She shuts off lights, double-checks the security system, and locks the doors behind her. In the Cassowary System, the space station is kept alight by two rotating stars. Night isn't really night but a decrease in the amount of light received by the current star in front of the station. She grimaces and pulls on shades, hands in pockets, as she strides across the docking bay to the spacecraft at the back. It is sleek, shiny, and appears to be in excellent shape, but it promises a good time _and_ a whopping amount of credits. Fiona lifts a hand to knock on the side of the craft just as a hiss sounds and a ramp extends down the side. She scoffs and climbs it, immediately taking in the change in scenery.

“God, you have no taste for furniture.” She says when she steps onboard, ramp closing behind her. It is a fairly nice-sized ship, with a small kitchenette, a bed chamber, washroom, and cargo hold. The Yautja from before, who she now sees have exceptionally lush maroon skin, steps out from the bed chamber wearing only the loin cloth.

Fiona cocks a brow. “Someone’s confident they’re getting laid tonight. At least you kept the mask on.”

“Language barrier.” The helmet voices. The Yautja stops a foot from her and looks down. He is much more muscular without any clothes, to the point Fiona begins to fidget from how attractive the toned curvature of his body is. She hears the male laugh again. “Do you want to do this?”

“Sharp-Knife, right?” Fiona recalls. She huffs. “Sure, why _not._ Haven’t fucked a Yautja in a couple years, much less a _Bad Blood._ Money's icing on the cake. I'd be down even without it." She yawns and snorts. "So, where we get started, meathead?"

“Bed chamber.” Sharp-Knife’s helmet voices as he walks to the rounded door of the bed chamber. He taps it, it slides open, and he steps to the side. Fiona snorts and strides past him, stopping inside to admire the wall of trophies. She hears Sharp-Knife’s delighted purr at her staring. The Yautja comes up behind her and leans down to whisper into her ear, “I am told I am very good with my… weapon.”

“Don’t start making puns about hunting.” Fiona snaps. She feels heat flood her body when the Yautja’s purring becomes a deep, husky growl. She moans softly and leans backward against his chest. “Fuck, I forgot you shitheads can do that.”

“You can get started.”

“Oh, so _I_ get to do the work? You want me to fucking dance on a pole?” Fiona spins around.

“Only on my pole.” It comes out so easily that she gawks at his lack of shame over a goddamn pun. Her eyes narrow. If the bastard wants a fucking, she’ll give him the best damn fucking of his aggravating life. She shoves him backward to the bed, ignoring his growl and taking off her jacket. She throws the garment at his head, then pulls off her shirt while he’s busy with the jacket. The shirt also gets thrown at his head. She chuckles at her aim, at his hiss, at the bizarre humor of it all. She desperately needs to get laid if her brain thinks this is funny.

She climbs on the bed in a bra and her lower attire. She doesn’t need to part his legs to climb between them, feeling out each bit of the hunter’s thigh while he begins to click feverishly beneath his mask. His body writhes impatiently, but Fiona does not rush. She slowly runs fingertips over the man’s legs and grins wickedly when her hands read his inner thighs. She takes the loincloth and rips it off. The Yautja snarls when she swoops down to his groin. She’s seen the hardened slit before; she knows the way it works and unsheathes.

“What? I not enough for you?” She goads him, spitting at his lack of erection.

Fiona yelps when the Yautja’s hands seize her body and flip her with ease. Her back slams against the bed and she looks up at the hissing, panting Yautja’s mask. In seconds, hands are on her chest and tearing through her brassiere. Her breasts perk up at the air hitting them; she arches her back instinctively when calloused fingers play with them.

“Fuck,” Fiona breathes when the hands _squeeze._ Two clawtips lightly scour her nipples, then they drop and grab at her abdomen. She is well-toned; the hunter seems to appreciate it as he soon returns all attention to her breasts.

“If you’re asking,” the hunter's mask voices. He begins to undo the buttons of her pants. Sharp-Knife struggles pulling the pants off. He begins to become erratic and bold in his actions, hands dancing around her legs to strip her of her remaining clothes. His hands return to her breasts and he hisses softly. Fiona groans. She is becoming a hot mess in a stranger’s bed, nude and wet. She begins to grind her hips against the bed, refusing to feel shame.

The hunter laughs. He smacks her hips lightly and pries her legs open. Fiona hisses at him and watches the masked man feel the curves of her torso. It feels invigorating to have the calloused skin drag against her flesh, touching and exploring. Sharp-Knife’s cock is beginning to peek through the slit; the bouncer catches an eye of the head and her groin begins to throb. She curses loudly. For all the aliens that swing by the Chickpea Night Walk, very few of them elicit such intense arousal like this one. He’s hot, and he picks up on her arousal, beginning to produce a rumbling noise in his throat that spreads through his chest. His dreadlocks tickle her breasts while he reaches her groin and feels for her clit.

She does not expect him to grind the pad of his thumb into it. Fiona yowls and grabs at him, nails scratching and clawing at the Yautja’s arms in a spike of pleasure. Her entire face is red as the alien snarls at her and begins to repeat the motion, provoking needy, hoarse croaks and a new string of expletives. The human’s body is strung up on the inside, tense and coiled in growing desperation. She tries to shift her hips to move the rest of the Yautja’s hand down, but Sharp-Knife laughs at her and keeps her still with his other arm. He has seeded a human before; the Yautja seems to know just the right amount of pressure to apply for her to be pinned beneath him but not crushed by his weight.

“So—You,” It’s hard to think with the fucker running ham on her clit, the sensations causing her to throw her head back and forth as pressure builds. “Fuck, fuck—You got fucking _experience_ —Fuck—”

“None as pretty as you.” The helmet voices it without a hint of emotion. Sharp-Knife begins to laugh at her when she gasps and squirms. She fails to force her hips up against his hand. Sharp-Knife draws his hand away and she cusses him to Jupiter and back. The Yautja laughs again and his helmet voices, “You have perfect hips. The kind to seed. To claim. To ravish. I could breed you until you are mine.”

 _Ugh,_ she does not enjoy admitting how hot it sounds. She doesn’t have a breeding kink, but being handled by large, muscular aliens does something to rational thinking. Her back arches into the Yautja towering above her when his hand returns to her clit. Fiona grits her teeth to hold back the moan.

She is slick and wet and _needy_ when his fingers spread her folds. Her cry of want comes as a finger presses inside of her. It is thick, rough, and it drags along the sides of her inner walls as Sharp-Knife calmly pushes it inside. The sharp clawtip at the end does not scratch anything, but Fiona tenses at the sensation of it trailing the roof of her insides. She begins to tremble when the clawtip reaches the sweet spot deep inside. Sharp-Knife growls lowly at her, his lust seeping through the sound, before he extends the finger and lets the clawtip drag across the pleasure point.

Fiona screams. Her first orgasm of the night drowns her thoughts as she thrashes against the alien, trying desperately to buck her hips in a way where he touches the point again. She is a flushed, panting mess. Her cheeks are bright red. Her eyes are glazed over in fervor. She chokes on her spit and inhales in sharp, sudden intakes as Sharp-Knife begins to rub the point inside her. The pleasure explodes and she writhes and convulses as the second orgasm builds and takes her.

He knows what he’s doing. He knows _more_ than what he’s doing. He is trying to make her beg for it, for him, for the right to take his cock and be dicked down into his bed. Fiona pants and wheezes as the alien draws his hand back. He stands on his knees and begins to stroke his shaft, the long, beefy genitalia a vivid red in contrast to the rest of his body. Though she can’t see his face, she _knows_ he carries a sickening smugness to him. _Motherfucking bitch-face asshole._

But an asshole with money and everything she needs to enjoy the night more than she already is. She slowly catches her breath, hair splayed around her, eyes locked on the hunter’s groin. Big dicks aren’t always fun, but her kink for being filled overrides any hesitation. Besides—His skills demonstrate he knows what he’s doing. She feels herself growing antsy for his touch by the second, but Fiona is a stubborn woman. She glares at him and snaps. “I ain’t begging.”

“You should.” The helmet’s response is immediate.

Fiona opens her mouth to speak but her eyes bulge and she finds herself at a loss for words. Her gaze is locked on the hunter’s groin, where his shaft pushes out more from the slit and reveals thick veins pulsing across it. Fiona’s mouth goes dry. She feels every second of arousal from the evening return to her. Her clit throbs as she watches pre pool in a small bead at the head of the Yautja’s shaft. Even for a different species, the alien’s anatomy lines up enough with human for her to be _highly_ appreciative of his equipment.

“Fuck. Fuck,” she throws her head back and scowls. “You’re a fucking fuckface, Sharp-Knife! Making a lady _beg!”_

“Only the humans,” The helmet states. “The _pretty_ ones.”

Heat rises to her cheeks. Fiona looks to the side and growls. “Mention I did this to anyone and you? _Dead._ I’ll find ya in any star system, planet, you name it—”

“Beg.” He repeats, though he is already climbing forward and pulling her legs apart. The hunter throws them over his hips and directs the head of his cock to her entrance. He doesn’t press in yet, but he rubs the head against the moist folds until Fiona begins to guffaw and curse all in one.

“Fuck—Fuck me! You _bitch,_ ” she roars at him, furious and blushing bright red. “Fuck me right now! I’m waiting for your _goddamn dick_ —”

Sharp-Knife growls loudly and smacks his hips forward. He penetrates her but it is only the tip; Fiona’s hands grab at the bed and she throws her head back in shock at the sensations. It’s been so long; she can feel herself stretch and burn to accommodate just the tip inside her body. She begins to pant just as the Yautja howls, withdraws, and thrusts into her again. This time—It goes in deeper, the inches disappearing inside her and forcing her to open up for him. Fiona’s back arches and her knuckles tense white. She cries out as the Yautja repeats the action a third time, the smack of his skin colliding against hers filling the air when his length is swallowed.

He breathes heavily from behind his mask, giant form looming over hers and pressing her into the bed. Fiona cannot stand to look at him; her mind is overwhelmed by how deep he is, how much he fills, and how unbearably _hot_ his cock is. It blazes inside her, forcing her to acknowledge just how much she’s taken. When Sharp Knife hisses at her, she begins to tense. The Yautja starts to gyrate his hips, drawing out to where only the head remains before dicking her down into the bed. The furniture shakes from the force of the thrusts. Fiona’s mind becomes a haze of rolling hips and scaly skin as she tries to meet his hips with her own.

The Yautja wastes no time building a pace. He is set on himself and his own climax, vigorously penetrating her with increasing frenzy as she tries to stay quiet and not voice her need for more. She cannot keep herself from crying out over and over at the height of each thrust; her abdomen tightens into a coil while the two’s hips meet.

When the edge of the cliff approaches, Sharp-Knife begins to growl and thrash against her body. The Yautja’s grip tightens and he pins her to the bed by her wrists. She whimpers as he throws his weight into his groin atop hers, the force jamming the head of his shaft against her cervix in time for his orgasm to explode into her. Agonizing heat fills her inside and Fiona orgasms beneath him. She pants as she rides out the high of his weakening thrusts.

He pulls out with a _plop_ and groans. The Yautja flops next to her on the bed, satisfied. His helmet voices, “Good.”

“Fuck.” Is all Fiona can think. Her legs quiver. Her clit continues to throb. She looks over at the masked hunter. “That—Fuck.”

“Worth your time?” The helmet does not sound tired.

The human exhales loudly. She looks down at herself and the pale green semen oozing out of her. It feels gross. She grimaces and glances up at the hunter. “Made me a real mess.”

“Yes or no.”

“You gonna clean it up?” Fiona barks. She growls when the Yautja begins laughing at her. He stops laughing the second she climbs unto him and lets the sticky mess of cum fall over his abdomen. The woman snorts at the ensuing silence. “That’s fucking right. Real shitty not to use a condom. Space or no space—Wrap it up.”

She laughs at him when his returning erection jabs at her rear. The woman slides backward and grins wickedly at him. She straddles him, runs hands down his pectoral muscles, and smirks at his growl. She spreads herself open and lowers herself over the Yautja’s engorged cock. Fiona’s teeth grit and she curses softly as the massive shaft starts to enter her again and push inside. She whines when she can only get him halfway.

“Fuck!” She snarls. “Fuck!”

“Beg.” It is the only thing the helmet says, and Fiona wants to cuss it out for days.

"Fuck me," She locks eyes with his mask and snarls impatiently. The Yautja growls back, but his hands return to her hips and grab hold. He pulls her over the rest of his length; her back arches and she sounds out a long, breathy yell. Her mood shifts immediately once the Yautja laughs at her; Fiona begins to bounce on and off him. She is much more sensitive than before; her cries are quick and endless as he hits every sweet spot inside and then some. Sharp-Knife's grip on her hips tightens as he sits up and watches the show.

Fiona makes a point of snarling at him. She grabs her breasts and plays with them while he hisses. His hands land on her chest and in a moment the fingers and clawtips scrape her succulent nipples. She pants and leans into him as her climax hooks her and begins to pull. Just as Sharp-Knife tweaks her nipples between each finger, she suddenly tenses, yells, and tightens around him. She hears his throaty groan and she shivers as heat lurches into her. Her body collapses on top of his, suddenly drained of energy. She hears soft purring come from beneath her; Fiona looks up and snorts at the sight of the Yautja's chest and throat rumbling.

His hands run up and down her arms. She grumbles meaningless syllables against his chest. "Fuck you. Again."

"It'll cost you." The Yautja's mask voices. Sharp-Knife's laugh follows before the purring resumes.

It must be a happy Yautja thing, or a pleasured Yautja thing, or some kind of Yautja thing, but Fiona doesn't remember the meaning behind it. She finds her eyes grow heavy when she dwells on the thought. On top of a mountain of a hunter, she is surprisingly warm and settled. Fiona decides to stop cussing him until morning; she relaxes into his grasp, shuts her eyes, and dozes off.


End file.
